


Just Act Normal

by verushka70



Category: due South
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Angst, Bisexuality, F/M, First Time Blow Jobs, Infidelity, M/M, Rimming, Sexual Confusion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-19
Updated: 2016-04-19
Packaged: 2018-06-03 04:31:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,588
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6596764
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/verushka70/pseuds/verushka70
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stella was gone.  Sam was around.  A lot.<br/>Ray realized pretty soon that he had a crush on Sam.<br/>A terrible, hopeful crush.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Just Act Normal

It was one thing to be a rookie. That was bad enough, though Ray certainly hadn't expected it to be a cake walk.

It was entirely another thing to be shit on by old cops who thought because their experience as rookies was shitty, yours should be too. He'd heard cops eat their young; he'd been warned. But it was still bad.

As if it wasn't already going to be shitty, this being Chicago and all. As if patrolling without a partner wasn't bad enough. As if starting in the worst districts (Hello, Rockwell Gardens! Hello, Robert Taylor Homes!) wasn't bad enough. (As if patrolling _with_ a partner wasn't bad enough.)

Bad enough you had to look the other way and keep your mouth shut if your partner was bent -- or have no backup when you needed it, if you ratted. Good luck reporting a "personality conflict" to get a new partner -- that didn't work until your second or third year.

As if seeing honest cops punished and kicked down to patrol in Wentworth -- and bad cops rewarded, moved up to plainclothes and O'Hare -- wasn't bad enough. As if crushing your ideals and your belief in justice wasn't shitty enough. As if working in the gray areas between black and white, good and bad, didn't fuck with you enough. No, on top of all that there was the hassling. The hazing. Being partnered up with an old fuck who always made you get out of the squad car first, hung you out to dry, only got out and stepped up if shit went sideways fast. 

Because that was how it was supposed to be, when you're a rookie. 

Ray got it. Cops were lucky if they made it to retirement without serious injury or, worse yet, killed in the line of duty. Some had been cops when things were a lot worse. (Some were so old, they'd been cops when things were a lot better; they were bitter.) They'd already been through worse than Ray would ever know. He got that. They weren't going to risk anything in the few short years before they could retire with a full pension. They knew how much their rookie partners needed them.

But it was still shitty.

So when Sam Franklin took a liking to you -- and brought you in on things -- it was like God himself smiled on you. 

The gear-change was startling. From hazing and hassling, everything suddenly became smooth as silk. 

Not the whole job, of course: it was what it was. It was never not going to be. 

But suddenly a lot fewer people (who were supposed to be on the same side) shit down your neck. Detectives and Inspectors had been around a while. They'd seen their share of shit. If you were in with one of them, older cops thought you were okay. (Most, not all; some had been around as long or longer and never made detective. They were especially bitter.) 

If you were eager to learn (Ray was), and you had someone eager to teach (like Sam Franklin), and you caught on fast -- that helped a lot. That wasn't the only thing knowing Sam Franklin did for Ray. But not getting shit on by older cops sure helped.

Even back then, Sam wore one of those expensive trench coats that draped and flowed, like he was some forties noir detective – or gangster. 

Ray should have known.

* * *

Ray tried not to think about it most of the time. Those days were long past. They'd been long past the last time he'd run into Franklin, which was years before Beth's most recent appointment for execution. 

But when he let himself think about it, Ray looked back on the early days with Sam with fondness, nostalgia, gratitude, arousal... 

With hurt. 

And guilt.

With Sam's help, Ray had figured out a lot about himself. He might have figured it out anyway, but it probably would have taken a lot longer and been way shittier. That was what made Ray feel nostalgia and gratitude. 

The way it ended, was what hurt. 

Plus the guilt.

* * *

Ray was surrounded by men who could physically manhandle him. But the homophobia among cops was so pervasive that he felt farther away from men who would sexually manhandle him than ever. Not to mention it would have been professional suicide. He had wanted to be a cop and he'd finally gotten his wish. He wasn't going to fuck it up. He pushed it away, pushed it under everything else. By now Ray was really, really good at that. 

Then he met Detective Sam Franklin on the Botrelle case. He wasn't an Inspector yet. Sam Franklin was smooth, easygoing, friendly. He was not quite paternal, but kind of. He’d been there for the Botrelle arrest, clapping a hand on Ray’s back. 

“You done good,” he told Ray. 

He was there for Ray’s doubts, for the guilt about Beth's death penalty. 

“They’ll appeal, don’t worry. She might get off with life.” He squeezed Ray’s shoulder. 

He was there for all of Ray’s worries. 

“You did your job. You did it right. The rest is up to the courts. Don’t take it so hard.” 

Sam Franklin had been through this stuff before. He wasn’t invested in outcomes. He did his job and let lawyers and public defenders and judges and juries figure out the rest. He was too experienced to let the conviction and punishment of a criminal he’d caught bother him. But this was different. A cop had been killed -- Sam's partner and one of their own. Maybe Sam wasn't invested in outcomes, but no way could Beth Botrelle walk. She killed a cop. Justice was required -- of the harshest kind. Even if she was that cop's wife, she was still a cop-killer. And there could be no mercy. 

Sam talked this way to Ray, and Ray listened. No man like Sam had ever really befriended Ray before. Ray couldn't talk to his father like this. His dad didn't want to hear about the bad people in his daily work life. From Sam, Ray got approval, not disapproval. Not disappointment. He smiled at Ray’s instincts and nodded understandingly when Ray described his internal freak-out when a kid pulled a gun on him. Sam encouraged the way Ray’s thoughts caught on minor details and led him to the clues that helped break cases.

Ray was, after all, a kid. He hadn't thought so then (and Sam never called him "kid" -- maybe "kiddo" once or twice). But Ray knew now he had been just a kid. Not even two years out of the Academy. 

Stella was gone. Sam was around. A lot. Ray realized pretty soon that he had a crush on Sam. 

A terrible, hopeful crush.

* * *

Funny thing about Sam: he didn't care who saw. He didn't have to. Everyone knew Sam was a physical guy. He'd throw an arm around your neck, punch you in the upper arm, lightly smack your cheek, grab your arm and not let go of it in the bar.

Ray remembered the first time Sam had put a hand on his face. His cheek warmed under Sam's hand. It burned. Sam felt it, too.

Ray stepped back and stammered and looked away and then met Sam's eyes. They were sympathetic and understanding.

Ray fled.

For a while after that, Ray found a reason to dodge Sam whenever he came around. Sam didn't come find him.

* * *

Ray had successfully avoided Sam for a couple weeks when Sam found him again in the locker room at the precinct. He didn't touch Ray at all, just stood with his hands in the pockets of his trench coat. They bullshitted while Ray got dressed. It seemed like Sam was only there for idle chit-chat: How're you doing? Got tickets to the Sox in two days, Sox vs. Texas Rangers, good seats right behind the dugout, you interested? Got time to go get a hot dog? 

"Sox? Why not the Cubs?" Ray asked.

"It's a night game," Sam said. "Anyway, I'm South Side Irish. Didn't you grow up in Back of the Yards?"

"Yeah," Ray admitted. 

"Where's your South Side pride?" Sam kidded. 

Ray didn't say it was his dad's South Side pride, not his. Stella and her parents rooted for the Cubs, so Ray did too. He'd gone to Cubs baseball camp, not Sox, which displeased his dad. When his father didn't come to his graduation from the Academy, Ray left behind any vestige of South Side pride. 

Ray agreed to the Sox game in two days. Said no to the hot dog right now. Sam took it in stride. He said Ray should meet him at his house for the game. He left without touching Ray, which itself broke a pattern and seemed weird. Ray nervously looked around the locker room. No one seemed to have noticed anything.

* * *

Two days later, Ray rang Sam's doorbell and got buzzed up. After taking the stairs two at a time, he stood nervously outside Sam's apartment door and knocked. He'd explained to Stella -- who was back from Europe -- that he was going to a game with a work buddy.

Sam opened the door, two open bottles of beer in his hand. He handed one to Ray and they clinked their bottles together. Sam said, "Shut the door behind you."

Ray shut the door, took a huge gulp of beer, and followed Sam into the living room. When Sam set his beer down and turned to look at Ray, his eyes weren't sympathetic like they had been when he'd put a hand on Ray's face and Ray's cheek had burned under his touch. They were not quite haunted, not quite hopeful. Ray gathered himself, took a deep breath, and set his beer down. He stepped closer to Sam. He said softly, "Sam." 

He waited and watched Sam's lips tighten for a second. Then Sam's breath came across the very short distance between them, as he stepped closer, too.

"Ray," he whispered.

Sam closed the distance between them and slowly placed his mouth against Ray's. Trembling started in Ray's hands. He struggled to stop it; he shoved his hands in his pockets. Sam opened his lips, so Ray opened his. Suddenly the kiss became hot, wet and needy. His hands were out of his pockets, gripping Sam's shirt. Sam hands were tight on Ray's upper arms. The flush of heat in Ray's cheeks was echoed below his belt. His heart leaped in his chest with excitement, with anticipation -- with fear. 

Sam suddenly pulled back and let go of his fierce grip on Ray's upper arms. He patted Ray's arm and chuckled. Ray opened his eyes.

"We going to a Sox game, or what?" Sam asked, and clapped a hand on Ray's back.

Ray blinked. "Yeah, of course," was all he got out. 

Confusion combined with aching arousal and Ray's suddenly unfettered imagination. He must have turned six shades of red with the things he thought. 

Sam just handed him his beer again, and picked up his own.

"We got time," he said, nodding.

Ray hoped that meant what he thought it meant. Sam smiled and had another sip of beer. "What do you think of this place?"

"It's nice," Ray said, looking around. Sam had high end, but not too high end, stereo equipment; good speakers; decent furniture. Otherwise kind of sparse.

"My wife and kids are up on the northwest side. I stay here when I'm in the middle of things down here. You know, eighteen hour days when you're trying to break a case."

Ray nodded, though he had no idea what that was like, yet. 

Looking back, Ray couldn't believe he bought that line. And where had the money come from, for an apartment like that on top of a mortgage? Detectives made good money, but not that much. Stupid. He should have known. It was all in front of him, but he didn't see it.

At the time, Ray was just glad Sam had an apartment to himself. That way if they came back after the game, they wouldn't be disturbed. Sam was married, too. That meant neither one of them was gay. (Right?)

"Let's get some food at the ballpark, what do you say?" Sam asked. "Ball park dogs?"

"Yeah, sure," Ray replied. "Couple hot dogs sounds good."

* * *

Sam drove to Comiskey Park. It was the first of three games against the Texas Rangers. Ray sat in the passenger seat, somewhat on edge. He wondered if Sam would try something in the car. But Sam didn't touch Ray at all, not even with his usual physicality. 

"These are really, really good seats," Ray said when got to their seats. They were right behind the Sox dugout, by third base. 

"A lot better than we had when I was a kid," Sam agreed. 

"Your family had season tickets?"

"Hell, no! My parents couldn't afford that with me and all my brothers," Sam shook his head. "We went once in a while. It was a big deal, a special occasion."

Ray remembered ball games at Comiskey with his dad when he was younger. 

"Us, too. Sometimes, if people left before the game ended, me and my old man climbed over into the better seats," Ray said. 

"And you hoped the Andy Frain ushers didn't ask to see your ticket stubs -- they'd chase you out for being in the wrong seats, right?" Sam smiled.

"Yeah," Ray agreed, and they both laughed. 

He and Sam got companionably drunk, but not shitfaced. The Sox were winning: Edwards pitched no hits from the first through the fifth innings. They got hot dogs from a hot dog vendor. 

Sam didn't touch Ray in any way.

Radinsky pitched no hits the last three innings. Combined with outfield plays and hits by Calderon, Sosa, Karkovice, and Johnson, the Sox won. Sam and Ray stayed for the obligatory fireworks after. 

It bothered Ray more and more that Sam wasn't touching him.

They got in Sam's car to go back to Sam's place. Ray feared he'd read everything wrong. Maybe he'd hallucinated the kiss at Sam's apartment. He stayed glued to the passenger side of the car and maintained his distance from Sam.

About half way back to Sam's apartment, Sam put his hand gently on Ray's thigh. 

Ray's heart jumped in his chest and began to pound. After a moment, he put his hand cautiously over Sam's. 

They drove like that for a minute or two. Then Sam slid his hand out from under Ray's. 

In the rhythmic flash of passing street lights in the dark, Ray saw Sam was already hard, his erection tenting the fly of his pants. Ray watched Sam touch and stroke himself through his pants. 

Sam didn't look at Ray or speak. He just kept driving.

Ray's head spun. He tentatively put a hand on Sam's thigh. Sam slid back a little. It gave Ray more room to touch him. Ray slid closer, feeling bolder. He put his hand over the hardness beneath Sam's smooth slacks. Sam exhaled. Ray stroked him through his pants. His heart raced with excitement. Sam got harder. He stepped on the accelerator.

Less than fifteen minutes later, they were on Sam's sofa, kissing and groping and stroking each other. Ray made up in enthusiasm what he lacked in experience. Sam had patience and finesse. The way he touched Ray -- easy, unhurried, firm -- made Ray want to do everything in his spinning head. 

Sam let Ray take the lead in everything. He didn't push, or force, or cajole. He hardly said anything. But the words he said were the right words. He had the right touch. He used both at the right times.

He opened his pants and returned Ray's ardent kisses. He leaned back and let Ray touch what he wanted to touch. He let Ray do whatever he wanted; he merely responded. The sharp scent of Sam's woodsy cologne and the musk-like scent of clean masculine sweat filled Ray's nostrils. 

Sam pushed his fingers into Ray's hair and held Ray's head for slow, deep kisses. He didn't make any moves beyond that. His cock felt incredibly hard when Ray touched it, but Sam appeared in no rush. Only when Ray unzipped his own fly and took out his cock, did Sam touch Ray's cock. They kissed and touched and stroked each other for what seemed like a very long time, but probably wasn't. 

By the time Ray was on his knees gripping Sam's thighs -- Ray's idea -- the tip of Sam's cock was wet with pre-ejaculate. 

Sam put a hand on his cheek. "You ever done this before?"

Ray couldn't find his voice. He shook his head: No.

"You don't have to," Sam said. 

Ray hesitated. He was confused.

"I, uh, sh-should stop?" he stuttered.

"If you want," Sam replied. "We can just do what we were doing." He shrugged. "No need to go from zero to sixty all in one night."

He pushed a hand slowly through Ray's already sweaty hair. Ray leaned into it. He bit his lip and tightened his grip on Sam's thighs.

"You want to?" Sam whispered.

Ray nodded. 

"Okay," Sam said softly. He leaned back on the sofa.

Ray choked Sam's cock down. It seemed enormous, way bigger than he'd expected, though Sam didn't seem abnormally large (not that Ray would know). It tasted not unlike sucking on his own finger, but with the slightly salty taste of Sam's pre-come. The musky scent of sex filled Ray's nostrils. Ray took it as deep into his throat as he could, again and again, almost gagging. Sam's pubic hair tickled his nostrils when he went all the way down.

His jaw started to hurt, but he kept going. Sam leaned forward after a few minutes. 

"Hey," he whispered. He cupped Ray's jaw and stopped him. 

So Ray was doing it badly. Great. 

"It's not a race," Sam said softly. 

Ray paused, mouth still on Sam's cock. He couldn't quite meet Sam's eyes. 

Sam stroked Ray's cheek again. "Your wife suck your cock?"

Ray couldn't speak, but he nodded slowly. 

"So do what she does, that you like," he murmured, "but to me."

Ray hesitated, then tentatively explored with his tongue. He tongued and tasted the details of Sam's cock, the ridge around the head. He licked the slit of Sam's pee hole. He slid his tongue across the vee-shaped notch of skin on the underside of Sam's cock.

Sam inhaled sharply.

Ray did it again and Sam breathed unsteadily. 

Ray remembered it drove him crazy when Stella did that between slow, steady sucking, up and down, before she went faster and faster.

Pleased that he had figured something out, Ray sucked Sam, slow and steady, with tight suction. Then he started sucking faster. He remembered Stella covered her teeth with her lips. 

(How he hated that his only comparison was sex with Stella. It felt terribly guilty and disloyal). 

(Not guilty or disloyal enough to stop.) 

Sam moaned quietly. His thighs tightened in Ray's hands. He thrust up sometimes. His hands went into Ray's hair, not forcing, but stroking, tightening. Ray sucked him harder, moved up and down faster. 

Finally Sam pushed Ray off his cock, but not fast enough. He spurted on Ray's cheek. Semen ended up on Ray's eyelashes.

Sam apologized. "Sorry," he said. He handed Ray the Kleenex box. He leaned back, wiping sweat from his forehead as Ray cleaned off his own face. 

Sam exhaled, then said softly, "Come here."

Ray slid back up to sit on the couch. Sam leaned over and nuzzled Ray's damp cheek. He pulled Ray in for a long kiss.

"All right," Sam murmured when their lips parted. 

He slid off the sofa to kneel between Ray's thighs. He pulled Ray forward by the backs of his knees. 

"Open your pants more," Sam whispered.

Ray opened his pants more and Sam pulled Ray's cock all the way out. He touched his tongue to Ray's cock. It sent a jolt right through Ray. He was really going to do this. Another man was really going to blow him. Somehow this was more earth shattering than the blow job he'd just given Sam, his very first.

Sam was skilled. It was seriously the best blow job Ray had ever had (and Stella was no slouch). Ray's thighs shook in Sam's grip. He hyperventilated and moaned. His pelvis thrust with a mind of its own. 

In no time at all his pants were completely off -- boxers too -- tangled in a pile near Sam's knees. Sam circled a finger and thumb around Ray's balls. He tugged them away from Ray's body so they couldn't tighten up, so Ray couldn't come too soon. Sam brought him to the edge again and again. It was excruciating. It was fantastic. Ray finally got so close that he couldn't not come. He failed to warn Sam at all. His steady moaning suddenly climbed into a shout, then he came and came, gasping with each spurt. Sam swallowed all of it.

Ray slid boneless and grateful off the sofa into Sam's lap on the floor. He kissed and clung to Sam, wrung out, blissed out. They held each other, panting in each other's mouths. Ray felt exultant. He'd done it, he'd finally done it: sex with a man. And it was Sam -- Sam who looked out for him, who had great Sox tickets, who was an all around class act.

The post-sex haze inevitably lifted, though. Ray suddenly wondered what time it was and how he would explain this to Stella. He stiffened in Sam's arms. Sam let him go, let him scramble to his feet and start putting his boxers and pants on. It wasn't yet light. It was the bluish dark before dawn. By the time Ray was dressed again, Sam was picking up empty beer bottles from the coffee table. Ray stammered, didn't get out one complete word.

"See ya soon, Ray," Sam said, patting Ray's check. "You're really something," he whispered, and kissed Ray once more. 

Ray fled.

Stella was sleeping when he got home. She woke up and said something groggily, damned if Ray knew what. He stumbled to the shower. He had to wash everything off him. Once in the shower Ray thought about everything he and Sam had just done. He was aroused all over again. He stroked himself and remembered the taste and feel of Sam's cock in his mouth. He bit his lip and held his breath. He jacked his cock faster and faster. He came hard again, water beating down on the back of his neck.

* * *

He tried not to use Sam's name too much around Stella. But it slipped out a lot anyway.

Stella didn't say much about it.

* * *

Ray didn't tell Sam that things were less hellish now that the old guys knew that he knew Sam. He just silently appreciated everything that came through Sam: ball games, bar tabs, and so much experienced advice and wisdom that Ray had recently gotten his first citation for bravery (not to mention regained the confidence he'd had in the Academy, before being a rookie made him doubt himself). Not to mention he got promoted.

Sam knew the best taco places. He knew the best Chinese food in, and out, of Chinatown. He re-introduced Ray to dim sum (Stella had tried once before), and taught Ray how to use chopsticks (Stella had tried, but she wasn't as patient as Sam). Sam took Ray out for the best pizza and for the best Italian food (not the same places, surprisingly). He knew where the best corned beef sandwiches were, where the best German brauhauses and Polish buffets were, from the far south side to way up northwest. 

Ray and Sam had their first Korean food together (Ray didn't like the kim chee). They went to a couple soul food places on the west side -- Ray's first corn bread and hush puppies, and the best fried chicken he'd ever had (he could live without okra, though). They had their first Thai and Indian food together, too, and found they both liked the former better than the latter. 

Sam drew the line at sushi. Said he couldn't eat raw fish because of the parasites. 

* * *

The time came for Ray to testify in court for the Botrelle case. The DA coached him. He rehearsed his written statement, from his original report on the night in question. Stella coached him.

But Sam's coaching was more effective. He and Ray went out to a bar. They got a table. Sam moved his chair over to Ray's and threw an arm around his shoulders. Ray stiffened, sure all the other cops in the bar were looking at them.

“Just act normal,” Sam said quietly. He gave Ray a little light slap to the cheek with the other hand. “Act like you do this all the time. Like we do this all the time.”

“You sure?” Ray replied nervously, darting his eyes around, guiltily enjoying it but wanting to shrug Sam off. 

“Absolutely. Act like this all the time, people think you do this all the time. It’s normal. Cops do this to each other all the time.” He smiled conspiratorially. 

Sam explained that when you testify, you only say the minimum necessary to answer the question. You don't get emotional. You resist efforts by the defense to rile you up or get you to say more than you want to. Sam said Ray had to know his own written statement backwards and forwards, but he shouldn't repeat it word for word.

He told Ray not to get cold feet when he saw what seemed to be a poor, defenseless woman sitting in an orange jumper. He reminded Ray of how bloody the scene was when he arrived -- reminded Ray that Beth had done that. He reminded Ray that he'd found her washing the blood off in the shower. He reminded Ray that her husband was a known philanderer and she was likely jealous and pissed off enough to kill him. 

He gripped Ray's forearm to emphasize. Suddenly Ray didn't want to talk about Beth or Jake Botrelle anymore. Sam met Ray's eyes. Ray said nothing, but they both knew. 

"Let's get out of here," Sam said, easy and knowing. "You heard enough from me," he added. "You'll be fine."

Ray half-protested, torn between wanting to hear more war stories -- and wanting to be on his knees in front of Sam, light pressure on the back of his head from Sam's strong, gentle hands; wanting that sweet stroke of his cheek telling him he was doing it, doing it right.

"You're ready," Sam said. "You'll do great."

"Thanks," Ray said shyly.

"You're really something," Sam added. His voice had a different tone, now. Warmer, fuzzier. 

Ray knew that tone. 

They went up to the bar, Sam paid the tab, and they left.

* * *

They went straight to Sam's bedroom, stripped off their clothes, and laid down next to each other. They took their time. Ray wanted things, but he didn't want to ask. Sam seemed to intuit what Ray wanted. While holding Ray's buttocks in his hands, while sucking Ray, he slid a finger between them, and rubbed gently. Everything down there clenched in reaction, and Ray came harder than he'd ever come. After he caught his breath and came out of the post-orgasmic haze, Ray sucked Sam until he came.

They rolled apart, catching their breath. 

"Jesus. Ray." Sam's voice was hoarse. "You are something."

Ray loved to hear Sam's voice that way, utterly undone, and loved to know he had done it. He found himself in the nook of Sam's armpit, which was weird; usually, that was Stella's place with Ray. They talked a little, lazy, sleepy bullshitting about sports, Chicago politics, the job. They fell into comfortable silence. Ray hesitated, not wanting to break the spell, but wanting -- what he wanted.

Finally, he rolled over on his stomach and pillowed his cheek on Sam's upper arm, facing away. After a minute that seemed to stretch far, far longer, Sam put a hand on Ray's back and slid it slowly, firmly down to Ray's ass. He pressed his lips into the short hair at the back of Ray's neck and stroked Ray's buttocks, over and over.

"Perfect," he murmured into Ray's hair.

It was soothing but arousing being caressed this way. Ray was hard again almost immediately. He tried not to buck up like he was asking for it -- though he was -- but he squirmed a little, making room for his erection.

"You okay?" Sam asked, but he didn't stop stroking Ray's ass.

"Yeah," Ray whispered.

Sam didn't say anything for a minute, just kept caressing Ray's buttocks.

"You sure?" he asked quietly.

Ray nodded, his cheek against Sam's upper arm. He couldn't speak. Sam's stroking stopped for a moment. Ray heard Sam suck his own fingers, getting them wet. Then Sam's hand was back, between his buttocks now. Ray spread his legs farther apart and Sam put two fingers there, at his hole. They circled and rubbed and didn't penetrate Ray, just kept rubbing until Ray thought he would melt out of his own skin. He got soft. He got hard again. His cock leaked -- a lot. It felt so good, so incredibly arousing. Ray knew there was more to come, but he wasn't sure he wanted this to stop, in order to get there.

Then Sam sat up in bed behind him and urged Ray up on all fours by his hips. Ray's erect cock hung down heavily, still leaking, balls tight. 

He'd expected Sam to kneel behind him.

What he didn't expect was Sam to push his cheeks apart and lick him.

Ray was lost.

* * *

Ray balked one night when Stella wanted to go out for sushi. 

"Raw fish? Parasites? No way," he said. 

Stella rolled her eyes. "Anything undercooked can give you parasites, Ray," she told him. "You could get trichinosis from your beloved pork chops, if they're undercooked." 

He shrugged. "How about we get Thai food," he offered. 

Stella looked at him like he'd just landed in a flying saucer. "Since when? Every time I've wanted to go out for Thai, you said no!"

Ray felt his cheeks warm. "We ordered it at work one day," he fibbed. "It wasn't so bad; it was kind of good. I like the curries." 

"You could try it with those guys, but not me?" Stella glared at him. "We're going out for sushi," she declared. "At least I am."

"Okay, okay," Ray agreed, and took her out for sushi. 

* * *

That was when he'd lost it, Ray thought. When Sam got behind him and licked him, that was when he'd lost all control -- when he became infatuated, obsessed, whatever.

(Fell in love.)

Sam licked and tongue-fucked Ray until he wanted to beg Sam to stop -- and to never stop. It was too much, it was too good. Then Sam added fingers to his tongue, penetrating Ray shallowly. Ray clutched at his own cock, too overwhelmed to even stroke it. He moaned and spread his knees farther apart. He slid down, chest and cheek against the sheets, ass up and a little self-conscious about it (but not enough to stop). 

Still Sam licked and tongued and probed him, never forcing anything, pushing and retreating in the most excruciating pleasure Ray had ever felt. Ray tried to organize his hand into stroking his cock. But he couldn't focus on it. His cock was no longer the center of his pleasure, eclipsed by the shocking intimacy of Sam's fingers inside him.

"Jesus." Ray could hardly get words out. He could feel himself easing open for Sam. 

"Okay?" Sam murmured. 

"Yeah." Ray swallowed, throat dry from panting. He took a deep breath. Sam patted his buttock reassuringly and kept going.

"Ray," he whispered. 

"Yeah?"

"Stroke yourself." Sam slowed down his fingers.

Ray focused on stroking himself and got a halfway decent rhythm going.

"Okay," Sam said.

Suddenly Ray's ass was filled and stretched, accommodating a new girth -- another finger, maybe two. It didn't hurt, it felt amazing. Sam probed somewhere deep inside him. A wave of inevitability overcame Ray, and he gasped. He was going to come. Now. 

And he did, all over Sam's sheets, moaning and jerking and spurting.

* * * 

Another night they started out in the bar catching a buzz, then ended up back at Sam's place. They were doing the same as last time: Ray on all fours in Sam's bed, Sam behind him, licking and fingering him. But this time, Ray knew, it was going to go farther. He was ready for it, wanted it -- Christ, he'd been dreaming of it.

"Ready?" Sam finally asked quietly.

"Yes," Ray blurted. His thighs shook with anticipation.

"Two fingers first," Sam murmured.

"Just do it," Ray begged.

All the amazing sensations stopped for a moment. Then Ray felt the heat of Sam between his thighs.

"I'll go slow," Sam said quietly. 

Ray heard a bottle squeezed, shuddered when he felt cool lubricant at his hole. Then there was much more than just the lubricant. It was the head of Sam's cock, slicking through the lubricant, rubbing back and forth, there, where Ray was so ready he ached. Sam was as good as his word. He worked his way in slowly and methodically. It was big, bigger than two or three fingers. Ray twitched and breathed and slowly accepted the head of Sam's cock. When Sam gently shoved the head in, Ray came -- a brief, stunning orgasm -- but stayed hard. Sam wasn't even all the way in yet.

Sam inched forward and then backed off, giving Ray time to get used to it. Sensations built as Ray stretched to accommodate Sam's cock. It was too much, almost painful -- then Sam pulled back a little and it was perfect. He thrust in further and again it was too much; he pulled back again and it was incredible. Ray groaned, overcome. His heart clenched at Sam's patience and tenderness. When Sam was all the way in, he held still. The backs of Ray's knees sweated; he felt cool air on his back: Sam panted over him. He pulled back one full stroke and then eased slowly, fully back into Ray, and Ray came hard --

He spurted, clenching around Sam's cock -- he couldn't help it -- He came so hard his arms trembled. He couldn't hold himself up on them anymore, and sank down on his stomach. Sam moved down with him, slowly rocking in and out of him, sweet, intolerable pleasure. Ray moaned, not used to such incredible pleasure continuing on after orgasm. Sam lay down on him and wrapped his arms around him. He moved only his hips, back and forth, in and out. It was too much -- 

It was perfect --

Ray wanted it to never end. 

* * *

It was a good thing Sam coached him, because Beth did look sad and scared and defenseless when Ray saw her in court. Ray didn't look at her. He knew she was guilty, but he couldn't look at her, except when he had to indicate that the defendent was in the room. Then he pointed at her, but he still didn't look directly at her. Beth mostly stared down at the table where she sat with her attorney. Thank God.

He did everything by the book, exactly as Sam said. It was horrible and it was hard, but he got through it. He knew his statement. He stuck to it, but -- like Sam said -- he didn't repeat it word for word. He answered the defense attorney, short and concise. He focused on the questions and said as little as possible. When he got off the stand, Sam put an arm around his shoulders and squeezed. 

"You did great," he said.

The jury was out for less than two hours. They returned a verdict of guilty. Ray knew a death sentence was the likely outcome in the sentencing phase. He almost threw up in the hall outside the court room, but he held it in, stomach churning, while Sam walked him out.

They went to a bar and Ray drank himself silly. Sam was kind and sympathetic. He said all the right things: Ray was only doing his job. It was an open and shut case. Beth had it coming.

Ray called Stella from a pay phone in the bar. She could tell he was drunk. 

"Celebrating?" she asked.

"Not really," Ray admitted. He didn't explain.

"I know," Stella said, her voice quiet and sympathetic. 

Ray's heart flipped unsteadily. Stella understood where his head was at. Sam didn't.

"I'm drinking, Stel'," Ray admitted. "I'm really drunk. I probably won't be home unless someone gives me a ride. I can't drive."

"I know, Ray," Stella sighed through the phone. "Be careful."

"I will," he whispered.

He went back to the bar, to Sam, and kept drinking. Lots of cops came up to them, slapped Ray on the back, shook his hand. Ray felt worse and worse each time. Why did it feel so bad to do the right thing?

Eventually Sam brought Ray home to his place. Ray hung on Sam but not in a sexy way, in a hopelessly drunk, can't-walk-without-support-and-direction way. Sam put Ray in bed, took off his shoes. It wasn't even that late; Ray was just shitfaced. Sam climbed into bed with Ray, but they didn't do anything. Ray was pretty much comatose the minute his head hit the pillow.

Hours later Ray stumbled into Sam's bathroom in his T-shirt and briefs, bladder bursting. He pissed a long time. His head wasn't exactly pounding but his mouth was dry. He was afraid the headache and stomach-churning hangover were coming. He didn't remember if he'd taken his pants off, or if Sam had. He turned on the light and blinded himself. He squinted and opened the medicine cabinet to look for aspirin. Sam appeared in the doorway, hair mussed. 

"Aspirin?" he asked Ray.

Ray nodded. Sam led him to the kitchen and got him a glass of water. He dropped two antacids into it and handed it to Ray. 

"This has aspirin in it. And other stuff. It'll help."

Ray let them fizz for a few minutes, swaying on his feet. Sam put an arm around his shoulder to steady him. Ray drank the antacids and set the glass down on the counter. He threw his arms around Sam, and Sam hugged him back.

"The first one is the worst. It gets better with time, the more you do it," he whispered.

Ray wanted to cry. Sam _did_ understand him like Stella did. He was just older and harder and more experienced. 

"Come on," Sam murmured, and led him back to bed.

They lay down and Ray curled against Sam. His mouth wasn't so dry. His stomach wasn't churning. He started to relax. Sam stroked his upper arm slowly, repeatedly. They didn't speak.

"Better?" Sam asked after a while.

"Yeah," Ray admitted.

"Feel like...?" Sam asked, and slid a hand under Ray's T-shirt.

"Yeah," Ray instantly replied. He'd tried for oblivion with booze, but it hadn't worked. Maybe this would.

Sam peeled his T-shirt off and slid his hands down Ray's chest. He leaned over and sucked one of Ray's nipples. Ray hadn't realized how sensitive they were (Stella didn't do that, much). He arched up, pressing his chest into Sam's mouth. Sam's other hand slipped into Ray's briefs and Ray's cock beat to life in his hand.

Sam alternated between Ray's nipples as he stroked Ray's cock. Ray cradled Sam's head against his chest and then leaned up to kiss him. His breath was stale and beery but Sam didn't seem to care.

"Lay back," he whispered to Ray, so Ray did.

Sam skimmed off his briefs and then his own T-shirt and briefs. He sucked Ray's nipple once more, then trailed his mouth down to Ray's cock and sucked him for a while. Ray thrust up into the amazing sensation, oblivious to everything else now. Sam stopped sucking him and moved between his legs. He leaned over Ray to open the bedside table drawer. He took out the lubricant and slicked it on himself. He pushed Ray's legs apart and then back, way back -- his knees almost to his armpits -- and pressed the head of his cock to Ray's hole.

Ray groaned and held his knees back and apart. Sam pushed the rest of the way in, slowly. When he was in all the way, he lay down between Ray's legs, chest to chest. He kissed Ray -- rough, wet kisses -- and fucked Ray slow. Ray moaned into his mouth as Sam slowly moved in and out of him.

"Harder," Ray gasped into Sam's cheek, rough stubble against his own.

Sam braced himself against the head of the bed. Ray drew his legs wider and higher, reached down to cup his own balls and protect them. Sam moved faster, fucked Ray harder. When they both came -- Ray all over his own stomach and chest, Sam inside him -- Sam crushed their mouths together in a harsh kiss.

Ray didn't know it then. 

But it was the beginning of the end.

* * *

It was subtle at first. When Beth Botrelle was convicted and sentenced to death and the case was closed -- except for the obligatory appeals, unlikely to be won -- Sam suddenly had less time to see Ray. Ray tried not to resent it when Sam said he had new cases that were taking up his time. He found himself driving past Sam's apartment at the end of his shift, looking to see if the lights were on. If they were, half the time Ray just kept driving. The other half of the time, Ray parked his car and rang Sam's doorbell. Sam answered maybe one out of every three or four times. Ray wondered if it was because Sam really wasn't there. Or maybe someone else was.

If Sam answered, he usually let Ray come up. Not always. Sometimes he'd say, "I got company," which Ray took to mean Sam's wife. They had never, ever talked about their wives. Most of the time when Ray stopped by Sam's, he was aroused. He needed it. He wanted it desperately, truth be told. Wanted Sam to man-handle him, to "make" him suck Sam's cock, to suck him and lick him, there, and finally fuck him.

If Sam was there, and if he let Ray come up, he always let Ray do whatever he wanted to do, always seemed to know what Ray wanted (needed). But Sam didn't always answer his doorbell. Ray wasn't an idiot. His brain ran circles like a hamster on a wheel, wondering what he'd done wrong. He was terribly hurt. But also incredibly relieved.

* * *

It was one of those nights when the lights were on at Sam's place, but he had not answered the doorbell. Ray had parked, turned out his lights, and waited with the engine running. He wasn't sure what he was waiting for. He'd almost fallen asleep in the warmth and darkness, when he saw Sam leave his building -- with a guy. They got into Sam's car, the guy in the passenger seat. Sam started his car. 

Ray slammed his car into drive, lights still off, and pulled up beside Sam's car. Then he turned on his lights. There was just enough light for Ray to see the guy in the passenger seat. Young, maybe his age. Sam's hand cupped the guy's jaw. 

Ray felt like he'd been sucker punched. He looked at Sam, unable to speak. Sam rolled down his window, motioned for Ray to do the same. On autopilot, Ray did, his mouth dry.

"It's not what you think," Sam said. "Ray, we weren't--"

"S-save it," Ray answered unsteadily.

"Ray." Sam had the decency to look guilty.

"I get it," Ray said through gritted teeth. His heart fluttered weakly. 

"Ray--" 

"Hey, you're married, I'm married, it's fine," Ray shrugged. "It was good while it lasted." 

He saw the young guy's eyebrows go up at the word "married." Good, he thought meanly. But he was no better, was he? That pissed him off. But he felt more defeated than anything. What right did he have to be jealous? He'd cheated on Stella with Sam. He had no moral high ground.

"Ray--"

"Go do what you were doing," Ray said tonelessly. "I'm gone."

He dropped the car in gear and laid rubber as he sped off. Not exactly the picture of indifference he had intended. His heart pounded in his chest and it felt like he had lead in his gut. He drove around, trying to cool off, trying to slow his heart. He clenched the steering wheel too tight. He slammed his fist on the dash several times. Tears sprang to his eyes but he refused to let them fall, glad none of this emotion had happened in front of Sam and -- that other young guy.

When he got home, Ray showered. He thought he'd cry in the shower but didn't. He slid into bed next to Stella with wet hair. She rolled over and slung an arm over him. Now, suddenly, Ray felt the tears behind his eyes. She had no idea, no idea, what a shit he was. His throat felt thick.

"What?" Stella whispered. 

She knew him too well. She cared about him. It was comforting and frightening. Ray clamped his mouth shut and swallowed a couple times.

"Nothing," he finally gritted out. "I love you." 

He meant it, he did, despite what he'd done, despite everything slipping away -- Stella because of the space between them (because of Sam), him away from Stella and the Ray he knew (the Ray he'd been before Sam), the kids they hadn't had yet, the family he sensed they'd never have. More than ever Ray meant it when he said he loved her. He was the liar, the cheat. Yet she sensed his distress and asked what was wrong? He deserved her less than he ever had -- and needed her more than ever. He was terrified he'd fucked it all up beyond repair. That he still would. 

He was an idiot, a fool, a chump -- so stupid. He had pretty much everything he'd ever dreamt of with Stella (except kids and her parents' approval). He almost threw it away -- for what? Fell in love with a guy. A married guy who saw other guys on the side, Ray merely one of them.

"Love you, too," Stella purred, sleepy and suggestible. Her hand slid down to Ray's cock and stroked him, clearly frisky.

His cock didn't respond. Ray freaked silently, heart pounding, mouth dry, none of which helped. 

"Something wrong?" Stella said after a few minutes of stroking him with no effect.

"Bad day," he lied. He rolled over on her and kissed the hell out of her, to silence them both. But he still wasn't getting hard yet.

Ray thought of Sam. He thought of Sam's mouth on his. Sam's hands on his thighs. Sam's mouth on his cock, his mouth on Sam's cock. Sam tugging his balls like Stella sometimes did, only Sam did it harder because Sam was a man and knew they weren't that delicate. 

He got hard. 

He wanted to punch the wall. 

He thought of Sam licking his ass. He thought of the way Sam eased him open with fingers and tongue before they fucked. He kept thinking of Sam, and all they had done together, all through fucking Stella. After they both came, they rolled apart. They lay face up, sweating and panting. 

Stella spoke again, quietly. "Where were you just now?"

Ray knew exactly what she meant. "Here with you," he lied.

"Part of you," she kidded gently. "Not all of you."

"I told you," Ray said again. "Bad day." It wasn't exactly a lie. 

"Okay," Stella said in her I-won't-ask-again-since-you-clearly-don't-want-to-talk voice.

"'Night," he said, and leaned over to kiss her cheek.

She pressed her cheek against his lips briefly, then turned to lay on her side, facing away from him. 

"G'night," she murmured.

* * *

Sam stopped by the precinct a few days later. Ray steeled himself when he saw Sam.

"Kowalski," Sam said, like they were buddies, nothing more. "What are you doing after your shift?"

"Going home."

"Come by the bar. I want to talk to you."

"Talk to me here," Ray replied shortly. 

Sam came closer, threw an arm around Ray's shoulders. "Come on. Let's have a drink."

"No." Ray shrugged Sam's arm off, though he wanted it to stay, wanted it to squeeze him tight. 

Sam moved closer, spoke quietly. "Let me explain."

"Nothing to explain," Ray replied, not looking at Sam.

"Then come by my place," Sam said in Ray's ear.

"No."

"You're angry. Of course. Don't blame you."

Ray felt like a fool. "I'm not coming to your place, Sam."

"Come to Conrad's. Come on, we'll get a table in the back. I'll buy. We'll talk."

"Fine." Ray surrendered.

* * *

Conrad's was the cop bar where Sam had coached Ray on testifying, and where they'd gone after Beth was found guilty. Ray went to the back room and found Sam in a corner booth. He sat down. It was quieter here than up front.

The barmaid took Ray's order, then disappeared. 

"So," Ray said with no preamble. "You just go around deflowering virgin ass?"

"Jesus." Sam leaned closer. "Tell the whole bar, why don't you? No, Ray. That's not what it was."

"Looks like it to me," Ray said curtly, and crossed his arms over his chest.

"Well, it isn't." Sam sighed. "I just..." He trailed off.

Ray waited, but Sam just took a large sip of his beer.

"You just what?" Ray finally prompted.

"Look. Around your age, I went through what you did. But I didn't have a good time, the first time."

Ray shrugged. "Big deal."

Sam sighed. "I went from virgin to fucked in every hole in one night."

"Jesus." Ray hadn't expected that.

"It hurt," Sam added with a short, bitter laugh. "I bled." He drank some more beer.

"Jesus, Sam," Ray answered slowly. "I..."

"Then the guy who broke me in dogged me for months," Sam continued. "Years, actually. Like he owned me or something. Because he was my first."

Ray suppressed a shudder. "'Broke you in'?"

"His words." Sam shook his head. "He told me this is what it's like; better get used to it. I put up with it. What were my options?" Sam leaned forward. "Cops busted gay bars and hangouts. They arrested guys in parks and public rest rooms. I couldn't go to a gay bar. Someone I busted once would make me, tell the whole bar I was a cop, they'd figure I was there on a sting."

"Oh," Ray said. He'd had no idea.

"When he finally moved on, I figured if I ever got the chance to be the first for some other guy, it was going to be slow and easy. Nice." Sam sighed. "Felt like a responsibility."

Ray thought about how awful the first time could have been -- hell, the first few times. What if it had been like Sam's? He didn't want to be grateful but he suddenly was, under his smoldering anger.

"But then the opposite happened. I did it right. Went slow, made sure it didn't hurt, made sure it all felt good. Instead of me dogging my first virgin, he fell in love with me. He kept coming back." Sam ran a hand over his face. "I wasn't going leave my wife. So I just kept seeing the kid."

"And fucking him," Ray pointed out. 

"It just happened that way, I didn't plan it," Sam said defensively. "But I didn't want to turn him away."

"With how many guys?" Ray leaned closer and spoke quietly.

"What?"

"With how many guys did this 'just happen'?" Ray hissed.

Sam paused. "A few."

"How few? How many? They still come around?"

"What the hell, Ray. I don't know, a few. Yeah, okay: sometimes they still come around. For old time's sake."

"A few is like three or four," Ray said stubbornly. "More than that?"

Sam shook his head. "Yeah, all right. More than that."

"How fucking many, Sam?" Ray demanded.

"Jesus, Ray, I don't know! Eight or nine guys, I guess."

"Including me? Or before me? Or during me?"

"None of your business."

"It's absolutely my business," Ray growled. "I have a right to know."

"Fine, not including you." Sam had the decency to look embarrassed.

"So then, this is your thing, deflowering virgin ass," Ray said meanly.

"You're being a real prick," Sam murmured low and angry. "If I had a secret plan to deflower every virgin fag who came along, it would have been a helluva lot more than eight or nine guys, trust me. Every one of 'em was willing. I was never like those old guys, the married cops shaking down underage hustlers for free blow jobs, coercing them."

"Yeah, you're a real saint," Ray sneered. "'Fag'? What's that make you?" 

"What do you want from me?" Sam snapped. "I tell you my story, you treat me like a perp. What the hell!"

"It's pretty fucking simple, Sam. If you're fucking me and eight or nine other guys, why aren't we using condoms?" Ray hissed.

"Ray--"

"Look, we should've been using rubbers. I'm married. So are you. There are other people to think about!"

"What, I made promises to you? No." Sam absolved himself. "I never made you any promises."

"You prick," Ray whispered. "No, you didn't. And fuck you. Why would I think you had something going on with eight or nine other guys, same time as you were seeing me? You're married. If you had anyone on the side, I figured it was me!"

"It was you!" Sam exclaimed, then hesitated. "Mostly."

"'Mostly'? Gee, thanks, Sam, that's, that's fucking... oh, Christ. We should've used rubbers."

"You want to use rubbers?" Sam sat back and finished his beer. "Go ahead. No one's stopping you."

"Oh, fuck you," Ray sighed, rubbing his eyes with the heels of his hands so he wouldn't choke Sam.

"You're jealous, Ray," Sam said quietly. 

Ray took his hands from his face and looked at Sam.

"Admit it. You're jealous. You thought you were the only one. You're pissed 'cause you found out you aren't. That's all this is," Sam said dismissively.

"Fuck you, Sam." Ray got up. He was jealous -- crushed, actually -- but he wasn't going to admit it. 

Sam grabbed his arm. "Don't worry. I got a doctor. Go see him, he'll check you out, fix you right up."

"I need to be 'fixed right up'?" Ray was suddenly enraged. He leaned down, his face inches from Sam's. "It's not The Clap I'm worried about," he snarled.

Sam shook his head firmly. "That's never going to happen to me."

"Why, Sam? 'Cause they were all virgins?" Ray twisted his arm out of Sam's grasp. "They're only virgins once. You're not the only one for any of them, now. So they don't mention anyone else -- so what? Neither did you. But you're seeing a lotta guys, 'not including me.' Who says they aren't?"

Sam didn't say anything. But he looked suddenly haunted. Ray walked out before the barmaid brought his beer.

* * *

It was a few weeks before Sam appeared at the precinct again. Ray saw him coming and steeled himself. He took a deep breath.

"Kowalski. How's it going."

"Fine, Sam."

"Listen," Sam leaned closer. "I'm sorry about -- at Conrad's. I was a real prick."

"Yeah, you were," Ray agreed. "I'm sorry too."

"Yeah, I knew you didn't mean what you said," Sam said, sounding relieved.

"Oh, I meant it," Ray replied a little sharply. "All of it. But I've had time to think."

"Yeah, and?"

Ray lowered his voice. "I guess the first time -- the first few times -- could have been a lot worse. I'm glad it was... the way it was. Not like... what you went through." 

"Okay." Sam looked relieved.

"Look, Sam, I'm grateful for all your advice and everything -- it's helped," Ray said slowly. 

"Anytime, Ray. I knew you were something as soon as I met you." Sam smiled.

"Yeah. Thanks." Ray paused.

Sam hesitated. "But?" he asked.

"But I can't anymore." Ray lowered his voice and looked down. "The lying, the cheating, no rubbers." He paused. "It has to stop."

"Okay," Sam nodded, but his eyes were sad. "Got it." 

He put a hand on the back of Ray's neck, then, and massaged gently. It was barely any pressure, just like the very first time Sam had put his hand on the back of Ray's neck.

Ray had to lock his knees. From his feet to his teeth, he was suddenly shaking with desire.

"Come over. We'll talk," Sam whispered.

Ray didn't even care, at this point, who saw or noticed. "All right," he agreed wearily. 

"I'm headed home now." Sam turned and left.

Ray stopped at Walgreens on the way to Sam's. He bought a three pack of Trojans. He took them out of the cardboard box as soon as he was in the parking lot. He threw the box in a nearby trash can and stuffed the condoms in his pocket before he got back in his car.

* * *

They didn't talk, of course. The minute the door shut behind him, Ray was in Sam's arms, their mouths locked together, their hands in each other's pants. Then he was down on his knees in the living room (again), Sam's cock in his mouth, balls in one hand, the shaft of Sam's cock in the other. 

Ray meant to say something. He really did. But he needed this, Christ, needed it like it was breath and blood, like it was the other half of himself.

He tried to talk when they were finally in Sam's bed.

"Sam. Wait." His voice trembled. 

"Wha..." Sam said. The vibration of his voice made Ray shiver. Sam held his cheeks apart, kissed and licked him -- there, where Ray needed it so badly. Same paused in his licking to kiss and gently bite Ray's ass cheeks, then went back to licking.

"Jesus..." Ray moaned. "Sam. Please." 

He meant to say, Please stop. Time out. Sam stuck wet fingers in Ray, then pulled them out and licked Ray some more.

"Sam... we..." Ray moved away finally, dragged his ass away from Sam, and leaned down over the side of the bed.

"What are you..." Sam trailed off.

Ray fumbled in his pants pocket, pulled out the three condoms, and ripped one off. He handed it to Sam over his shoulder.

"Ray?" Sam turned the rubber over in his hands.

"We have to."

Sam cleared his throat. "Me and Ronnie don't have sex anymore."

"Me and Stella do," Ray said.

Sam tore the condom open and put it on. Ray turned back around, facing away. 

"Okay," Sam murmured. He gripped one of Ray's hips with one hand, and rubbed the head of his cock back and forth across Ray's hole, slow and sensual, pushing gently.

Ray moaned.

"Ray," Sam whispered. 

He thrust harder, and Ray relaxed, and the head went in and Ray utterly stopped thinking. All he could do was feel. He breathed and relaxed and let Sam in. Felt Sam move inside him, in and out of him over and over, sensation overtaking logic and reason. This was the only thing that mattered. 

Sam sped up, then, moving rougher and faster. He fucked Ray hard, both hands gripping Ray's hips tight. Ray's head hung as he came helplessly on Sam's sheets. Then Sam came, too, pumping in Ray's ass. They sank down flat in the bed, Sam on top of Ray.

Ray felt Sam's cock slowly shrink and soften inside him and then slip out. Sam rolled off of him to lay face up beside Ray. He took off the condom and tied a knot in it, tossed it aside. Ray stayed on his stomach. They caught their breath. Sam patted Ray's ass. Soon he was snoring. 

Ray lay awake, a terrible, sinking feeling growing inside him until he couldn't take it anymore. He was still jealous, still crushed and hurt. He still knew he was not the only one. Was one of -- Jesus -- eight or nine guys he'd have liked to kill (or at least check out, if it weren't... stalking). And even with a condom, he felt guilty. He thought about Stella. Who knew what time it was. 

It had to stop. 

He got out of bed. 

Sam stirred. "Where you going?" he murmured.

"Where do you think?" Ray said sharply. "Home. To my wife."

"Oh," Sam murmured, rolling over. Like it was no big deal. Like they weren't lying to their wives, to their families.

To themselves.

* * *

He didn't see Sam for a few weeks after their argument in the bar. Didn't drive by his apartment, didn't call. Sam didn't come around.

Ray was in Conrad's after work one night, standing at the bar drinking alone and morose. 

Sam came in. Seeing him was like a kick in the gut. Ray turned away, but Sam had seen him. He held his breath as Sam walked over. He patted Ray on the back. Ray sat stiffly on the bar stool and suppressed the urge to bury himself in Sam's arms. 

Sam settled in next to him on a barstool.

"Thought maybe you'd be here," Sam said.

"Yeah." 

It hurt, it still hurt, thinking about Sam with that other guy. Guys. Whatever.

"So this is it?" Sam asked quietly, signaling the bartender.

"I told you, Sam." Ray clenched his teeth. "I can't. Stella. I can't anymore."

"Me and -- the other guy. Guess that didn't help." Sam ordered a beer on tap.

"Guys," Ray corrected quietly. "No, it didn't," he agreed softly.

"When you didn't come around, I thought I'd come find you." The bartender brought Sam's beer and he sipped it. Then he fished in his pocket. "Here," Sam said, and handed Ray a business card.

"What's this?" Ray looked at it. "Kenneth Richmond, M.D."

"A doctor. I told you. I wasn't full of shit about that," Sam explained. 

Ray sighed. "Didn't think you were. Just -- Sam, don't take this the wrong way --"

"I get it, Ray." Sam shook his head. "I'm sorry. Got to thinking. Don't want you to hate me."

"I don't." What almost came out was, I think I love you. Followed by: Why, you son of a bitch?

"Anyway, see the doc. He'll fix you right up."

"I need fixing?" Ray asked, irritated all over again. "Is there something I should know?

"No, that's not what I -- look, just let him check you out. But, no. You don't have to worry."

"Yeah, all right. I will."

"Just trying to ease your mind."

Nothing will ease my mind, Ray thought. "Okay. Thanks, Sam."

"Any time, Ray," Sam replied, low. 

Ray knew what Sam meant by that, but that was never going to happen again, he told himself. Ray finished his beer. As he left a tip and got off the bar stool, Sam put a hand on his arm.

"It wasn't all bad, Ray."

Ray nodded. "No, Sam. It was..." God, he didn't want to admit it. "It was great. It really was. I'm grateful, like I said. It's just..." Ray trailed off. 

"Yeah, I know." Sam seemed tired and worn.

"Okay," Ray said regretfully. "I'll see ya," he said he left.

He forced himself not to look back as he opened the door and walked out.

* * *

Ray tried not to think about Sam. It seemed like the more he tried not to, the more he actually did. He dreamt of Sam, sex dreams from which he awoke harder than the usual morning wood, with a terrible longing no amount or variation of sex with Stella satisfied. Not that Ray didn't try; Stella had always been up for morning sex, even when she wasn't up for breakfast... or really up at all, period. 

So he tried to blot out thoughts of Sam with sex -- lots of sex with Stella. It didn't work. He thought of Sam in bed with Stella. He thought of Sam even when not in bed with Stella.

So then Ray tried reverse psychology on himself: he thought about Sam as much as possible, hoping he'd get bored with it. But thinking about Sam as much as possible made him sad... and also terribly aroused. Then he needed to jack off. Of course then he thought of Sam while jacking off, which didn't help. So reverse psychology didn't work either.

Things done with Sam had overlaid Ray's memories of things done with Stella, like learning to use chopsticks, or getting the best Chinese food. 

He tried to stop doing things that reminded him of Sam, to the extent that he could. He stopped going to places they'd gone together. But Ray had introduced Stella to some of those places. She got irritated when he became inexplicably moody if they went to them, or if he flat out refused to go. 

Ray brought home food from Three Happiness once a week for a few weeks, trying to bury memories of Sam and chopsticks and Hong Min's with new memories of Stella and chopsticks and Three Happiness. That helped. Slowly.

Eventually, Ray didn't think about Sam every hour. Then it wasn't every day. It became every other day, then every few days. Then maybe once a week. Slowly, over time, he stopped thinking about Sam. Except when something jogged his memory... like chopsticks and Chinese food. 

Or when he ran into Sam. 

That was less and less often now. At first it had been every few weeks. Ray would start to feel better, feel like he was over Sam -- and then he would see him again. Sam would happen to be at the precinct, or they'd run into each other in court. It would send Ray down The Bad Road in his mind all over again, thinking about Sam, obsessing about him (driving by his house, but never, ever, ever ringing his bell, never again). 

Over time, though, his run-ins with Sam happened less often. Every couple-few months, maybe. At the precinct; at the courts.

Sam never came looking for him anymore. 

But whenever he ran into Sam, it messed with Ray all over again. It dogged him for a while.

He ran into Sam in Chinatown one night, months and months later. Ray was going in and Sam was coming out -- out of a different place Ray had never gone with either Stella or Sam. Ray knew it from ordering food with his partner. It was Happy House, right around the corner from Hong Min's. 

Sam was with another young uni cop. He introduced Ray to Jim and Jim to Ray. Everyone shook hands. A few minutes of chit chat and brief catching up later, Sam and his young friend left the restaurant. Ray hid his clenched fists in his jacket pockets, watching through the restaurant window as they got in Sam's car and left. 

Ray suppressed the sudden urge to follow them, paid for his and Stella's food, and brought it home. He and Stella ate. She read the whole time; he watched the game with the sound down. He excused himself after dinner to take a shower.

Under the hot spray, Ray ran through his "best of Sam and Ray" memories and jacked off. He brought himself to the edge again and again like Sam had. When he was close to coming, he slid a slick, wet hand between his own buttocks and stuck his finger in himself, remembering Sam doing that to him while sucking him. He came like fireworks.

As he toweled off in the bedroom, Stella came to him and slid her arms around him. They got in bed and Ray dutifully licked and fingered her until she came. But when he slid up her body to push himself inside her, he wasn't hard enough. Stella didn't say anything, just pushed him onto his back and sucked him.

Ray closed his eyes and imagined Sam sucking him. He got hard –- very hard. Stella climbed on him. He held her hips fiercely while she rode his cock until she came again. Ray didn't come. 

Stella lay down to let him get on top, and Ray got on top and fucked her, fast and hard. But he couldn't come. He was close. He wanted to come. He'd had enough time since jacking off in the shower. None of that was the problem. He just couldn't get there. 

The harder he tried, the farther away his arousal seemed to slip, until he was only half-hard. Ray was equal parts surprised, embarrassed, and angry that he'd just come in the shower jacking off to thoughts of Sam -- but now he was inside Stella and he couldn't come or keep it up.

"You okay?" Stella asked quietly when he had rolled off and lay beside her.

"I'm fine," Ray lied. "I jacked off in the shower this morning."

Stella hesitated. “All right," she finally said, accepting his lie.

Would it be like this forever? Ray wondered.

Off and on, it was. 

Each time he ran into Sam.

**Author's Note:**

> This is an excerpt of a longer WIP Sam Franklin/Ray Kowalski --> Benton Fraser/Ray Kowalski story, motivated by cheerleading from [Ride_Forever](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Ride_Forever/pseuds/Ride_Forever) and set during The Ladies Man.


End file.
